


Stray Hearts

by piratesails



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-01 16:17:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4026589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piratesails/pseuds/piratesails
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s insufferable, and nothing, not even the fact that he’s laughing with childlike glee as he cuddles a litter of stray kittens, will change Emma’s mind about Killian Jones. Or, that’s what she thought, anyway. CS Neighbors AU inspired by Awful-AU's submission #195.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lenfaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lenfaz/gifts).



> Just a little fluffy one-shot prompted by Lena over on my tumblr, which I may or may not extend on one day.
> 
> “I hear meowing coming from next door and it’s 3 AM and I have to work tomorrow so I’m coming over to yell at you bUT WAIT you brought a box of kittens and their mother in from the cold and you’re adorable and so are they so let’s play with them before we take them to a shelter and maybe we’ll keep one and name it Butterscotch.” AU

She hates him.

She’d settled on hating him a week into his move, when his ridiculously loud rock music roused her from sleep far too early in the morning. And then, there had been his stupid singing on the weekends. She’d ended up with his mail more often than not. And, of course, there was that one time she’d been in a rush and had collided straight into his bare chest as he was going to do his laundry; the salacious grin and overdramatic wink he’d shot her as she’d snatched her hands away from his abs only made her blood curl further.

She tolerates him, rolls her eyes at his attempts to flirt with her, refusing to give in to the way that his Irish lilt makes her stomach flutter ever so slightly. No, she’s pinned him down as one of those men with hollow hearts that strut around getting by on their good looks.

But, in the five months that Killian Jones has, to her displeasure, been her next door neighbour, she’s never hated him more than she does right now. Because, _really_ , she’s already figured out that he has no consideration for other human beings, but the man doesn’t even spare animals. The faint meows seeping through the thin walls have only intensified in the last ten minutes, and she feels her heart clench at the thought of the asshole not taking care of his pets.

And because she makes the most rash decisions when her head is fuzzy with the need for sleep, she shoves on a light hoodie over her tanktop and flannel pajama pants combo, stomps out into the hall and pounds rather aggressively at his door. She’s been putting this off for too long, and she can barely keep her eyes open, but the need to yell at him for being so _fucking inconsiderate_ drives her forward like no caffeinated beverage ever could.

When he doesn’t answer the door, she raps her knuckles at it again, keeping her hand balled into a fist, narrowing her eyes as she hears a shuffle and a chorus of meows and _God, did he buy the whole pet store out?_

She’s about to knock once more when the door flings open and just the sight of him irks her. (Her mind jumps to how good he looks with his messy hair almost falling into his forget-me-not blue eyes, adorable confusion marring his face, until she remembers that he’s a poor excuse for a neighbour with an insufferable personality and she hates him, she _hates_ him.) She grits her teeth.

“Jones, it’s three in the morning and I have had it with you and your shitty attitude and I have to get up for work in like four hours so you better feed your fucking pets before -,” her eyes dart down to the small, light orange tabby kitten curled up in his arms, the one she failed to notice in her building rage. Its soft purrs fill the silence between them as she loses her train of thought because, who is she kidding, she’s never seen a cuter kitten in her life.

When she looks back up at him, he has a soft smile on his face, head tilted slightly to one side as he studies her. She opens her mouth to snap at him once more for waking her up when a rather loud meow and a crashing sound echoes through his apartment. She watches him wince and rush into the living room, kitten still half asleep in his arms.

She’s left standing alone at his door, unsure of what to do. She contemplates going back to bed, maybe shoving some cotton in her ears and salvaging some rest, but in the end, it’s her curiosity that wins out and she finds herself awkwardly shuffling into his apartment, closing the door behind her.

“No, all of you can’t drink from the same bowl, that’s not how it works.” She follows his exasperated tone to find him sitting cross-legged in the middle of his living room floor, surrounded by a litter of loud and excited kittens, the tabby curled blissfully in his lap.

“Jesus, did you haul home a family of strays?”

He jolts his head up, her voice (or perhaps her presence, he didn’t exactly invite her in after all) catching him off guard. The shock on his face goes as quickly as it comes, and is replaced with a ducking of his head as his fingers scratch at a spot behind his ear.

“Uh, aye, someone abandoned them in an alley near my bar and I couldn’t leave them out in the cold so -,” he brings his hand from behind his ear to gesture vaguely at the kittens meowing and roaming  in circles around him.

“Oh.”

“Apologies if they woke you, Swan,” he shifts slightly as if he’s attempting to get up, but the cat in his lap elicits a yowling sound in protest and he hesitantly moves to his original position. “I just - I couldn’t leave them alone out there.”

The waver in his voice sends a shiver down her spine, and it’s the first time she’s heard it without the edge of an innuendo, or a curling smirk to follow it up. It’s the first time she recognizes him as a lost boy.

His eyes are fixed on the kitten in his lap, his thumb stroking under its chin in a gentle repetitive motion, and he just looks so tired and _soft_. And he doesn’t say it but she knows he understands; strays look out for other strays.

She casts a glance at the the other kittens (she counts five) and then at the two bowls of water he’s laid out in front of the sofa, right next to a torn and haggard cardboard box that has _FREE_ scribbled across it in black sharpie. And damn her if she doesn’t feel an onslaught of emotions that takes her straight back to when she was being moved carelessly from family to family, stamped with a label en par with the one on the box.

She runs a hand through her tangled curls and lets out a shaky sigh. “Well, they’ll never get through the night with just water.”

He meets her eyes, his eyebrows furrowing, “I couldn’t acquire any pet food because all the shops were closed on my way home. All I have are those instant noodles.” His worried gaze scans the kittens who have taken to pouncing on one another and she really shouldn’t be feeling this strong of a pull towards the whole scene.

“Lucky for you, I have some cold cuts at my place,” she shrugs and turns to exit before she can analyze the expression he throws her way, striding into her apartment to grab the packet of food along with some leftover steak that she’d stashed in her fridge. She cuts up the steak into small pieces and deposits it into a plastic container, all tiredness now shifting out of her bones.

She’s doing this for the strays, not for him. Not because he looked like he was going to blame himself for letting down the litter of kittens, not because she finds his immediate attachment to the animals endearing, not because she likes how domestic he looks cuddling with a kitten. No, definitely not.

By the time she gets back, Killian has laid out a folded blanket next to the box along with a messily cut up cereal box lined with a plastic bag and filled with dirt to act as a makeshift litter tray. She smiles a little as she makes her way to him, huddled beside his sofa with two kittens (both with dark orange coats but one with distinctly more white colouring its paws) climbing on to him as he laughs. And dear God, she’s never seen this side of him before and it scares her how much her insides melt because of it all.

“I brought food,” she lamely lifts up the container in her hands in an attempt to get his attention.

“Swan!” He seems more lively than when she’d left him, an undeniable sparkle gathering in his eyes. “Allow me to fetch a few more bowls,” he gently picks both kittens off his body, their claws catching on to his shirt multiple times and him prying them apart slowly, and grabs the items from her hands, shooting her a smile as he walks into the kitchen.

As soon as she drops to sit down on his sofa, the tabby that had been his arms comes bolting towards her and headbutts into her leg with a small meow. “Aren’t you an excited one?” she laughs breathlessly as she picks up the kitten and places it in her lap.

“She’s a bit fiery, that one, took a bit to warm up to me but she’s my favourite.” He holds her eyes for two beats, countenance intense and searching, before he smirks and winks at her. She clears her throat and drops her gaze back to the animal now nibbling at the zipper of her hoodie. She doesn’t want to know if he’s talking about _just_ the cat or not.

“Should’ve known you’d be the kind to pick favourites.”

He chuckles, places the bowls of food on the floor and watches as the kittens rush to them. “Can’t deny attraction once it’s been felt, love,” and even though he’s smiling, he’s looking at her like _that_ again, a building storm behind his eyes. He lightly shakes his head once and plops down on the sofa beside her, petting the kitten that has now settled in her lap, “Perhaps I shouldn’t get too attached, have to hand them over to the shelter come late morning.“

“You could keep them,” the lost girl in her claws at some kind of need to be a saviour.

“All six, Swan?” He regards her with an amused raise of an eyebrow and then sighs, “As much as I would love to, I’d be gone most of the evening and night and I’m afraid that would be true neglection on my part. I’ll just have to trust they’ll find good homes.”

“I could keep one,” she blurts out before her brain can catch up with her mouth. She looks down at his hand, still stroking the soft fur, “I mean, I’ve wanted a pet ever since I got this place and what better way than to adopt, right?”

She doesn’t know where it’s coming from, but she doesn’t want to fight it. Some part of her tells her that maybe having a pet will finally make some of it feel like home; her fourth house had a cat, and that had been the best house she’d been to, the closest thing to a family.

His expression, when she darts her eyes back to his face, is tinged with disbelief but he’s smiling broadly, twin dimples flashing on either sides of his mouth. He seems to perk up, scooping up two kittens pulling at his socks with their teeth, and placing them on his lap; they immediately stumble into one another. “On one condition, Swan, you allow me to visit the little furball.”

She notes the hint of challenge in his voice, a dare in his eyes. “Fine,” she juts her a chin just a bit higher in the air as if to tell him that he doesn’t affect her (he _doesn’t_ , she _refuses_ to think he does).

He laughs, the sound mingling with the playful meows of the kittens, and he slips down on to the floor, trailing a piece of string across the carpet for the cats to play with. The kitten on her lap jumps down almost immediately, crowding around him with the others and she settles into the corner of the couch. She doesn’t let herself think about why she doesn’t just get up and go home, just watches as he playfully reprimands all six kittens to play fair.

(She wakes up to the light orange tabby curled on her chest, Killian nudging her shoulder with a mug of coffee in his hands and a “You’re going to be late for work, love,” spilling from his lips; she doesn’t remember falling asleep on his couch or being covered with a soft blanket but she does remember laughing as all the kittens attacked him, remembers his voice joyfully roaring out, “Bloody feline mutiny, Swan!”)

(Ten minutes after she gets home in the late afternoon, there’s a knock at her door, a grinning Killian Jones holding up the tattered cardboard box, now only housing one small kitten, on the other side; the one she’d seen him holding in his arms, the one that had fallen asleep right next to her heart.

He saunters in with a “I named her Butterscotch while you were away.”

She rolls her eyes and huffs, “Original.”

“Well, she likes it, so it stays.”

A grin slips onto her face as he cradles the kitten in his arms, and _fuck_ , she likes him - and for the life of her, she can’t help but hope that he stays, too.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My muse decided that I just had to write more for this verse. I’m not sure how long this will be but maybe 5-6 chapters depending on where I want to take it. More kitten fluff, ahoy!

“What is that?”

Emma rolls her eyes and watches as Butterscotch pads her way out of the bedroom, the bell around her collar jingling with every stumbling step she takes, “It’s a cat.”

“Since when do you have a cat?”

“Since two weeks ago, Elsa, now can we get back to the story?”

It’s mid evening and they’re both comfortably curled up on Emma’s sofa, mugs of hot cocoa in hand, while Elsa recalls her latest trip to Germany. Her best friend is a photojournalist, and a damn good one at that, always one foot on an airplane and a penchant for discovering the unique crooks of any city she lands in. And even though she couldn’t be prouder of her friend, she finds herself missing Elsa on most days when she’s gone for weeks on end, itching to have a support system, someone to talk to and to laugh with about the latest Project Runway episode (and, okay, maybe someone to vicariously live through, but can you blame her? She likes her job but it’s not exactly around-the-world-in-80-days exciting).

“Why didn’t you tell me you got a cat?”

“Because it’s no big deal, and you were busy,” Emma tilts her head slightly, knowing she’s skirting around the question, a teasing smirk forming on her lips, “with a boy.”

Elsa tries to groan but it effectively transforms into a giggle; her friend has never been the best with hiding her emotions when it comes to men. And so, Elsa excitedly begins to tell her about the guy she had met between being stuck in some cafe because of a thunderstorm - through all the chatter and the adorable tint of red on her friend’s cheeks, she manages to gather that his name is Jack, he actually lives in the city when he’s not vacationing in Europe during summer, and they have a date lined up next week.

“I’m so happy for you, Elsa,” she grins wide. Butterscotch chooses that moment to jump up on the sofa and settle on top of her crossed legs, licking her paws and purring lightly. She coos at her cat ever so slightly, a habit she formed just about two days in to having her. Emma has to admit, her cat has grown quite a bit over the last two weeks - and she never thought she’d be spending so much money on food for such a tiny animal. Not that she pays for all of it; Killian helps, of course.

Her and her neighbour pooled together to invest in a scratching post, a proper litter tray, and a few toys. (Killian had been overcome with a childish excitement when he'd seen the shelves filled with cat toys at the pet store; she'd tried - and failed - to not find it endearing.)

“Are you really not going to explain the cat?”

Emma shrugs what she hopes is nonchalantly, “Her name’s Butterscotch.”

“Original,” an amused smile flitting across Elsa’s lips as she bends forward to stroke the cat’s fur.

“That’s what I said.”

“To who?”

“To Killian.”  _Shit._

Elsa’s hand immediately halts and her head jolts up, eyes practically searing a hole into hers. Emma tries not to fidget under her gaze, tries to keep from squirming or running or  _anything_ , because her friend might be gentle but when she wants to, she can freeze your blood cold. When Elsa chooses to speak after what feels like  _hours_ of staring at her, her voice is low and just daring to be lied to, “Your neighbor Killian? The one you hate? What are you doing taking a live animal from him?”

And, really,  _shit_. “I - uh - he brought in a few strays and I volunteered to keep one?” It ends up sounding more like a question than an actual statement. “And I don’t hate him,” she adds quietly, averting her attention back to Butterscotch, who is now asleep.  _Really_ , she rolls her eyes, the little thing can be so unbelievably lazy sometimes. She silently hopes her cat’s cuteness is enough to distract Elsa.

“Oh my God,” it’s hushed, and runs together to sound more like one syllable, “you like this guy.”

“What,” Emma scoffs, “I do not.”

“Emma, I’ve known you for years. You either really hate someone or you really like them. There’s no middle ground.” Her friend places the mug in her hand on the coffee table and scoots closer to Emma, leveling her with a light-blue eyed gaze that’s far too perceptive.

Emma opens her mouth, rebuttal burning on the tip of her tongue, when a knock sounds on her door. And, she decides, the universe must really have some growing grudge against her to throw her under the bus like this. Elsa’s gaze shifts quickly between her and the front door, understanding blowing her pupils wide. Emma decides it’s better for her to get the door before her friend chooses to play bad cop and wring Killian’s neck for answers, too.

Sighing, she scoops Butterscotch off her lap and into Elsa’s and makes her way to the door, opening to find her neighbour - her unfairly gorgeous neighbor - with a massive grin on his face and a box of doughnuts in his hands. (They’d found out a few days into adopting her that Butterscotch had a bit of a sweet tooth when it came to glazed doughnuts; after a few hurried texts to Graham at the shelter and an approval as long as they weren't feeding her too many or she wasn't getting sick, Killian had smirked and murmured out a “She  _is_  your cat, after all.”)

“Evening, Swan. I handed the reigns to Ruby so I could duck out early tonight, figured we could get a headstart on that season of Breaking Bad.”

Her heart, she had resolved the minute he’d come by the next day after pawning the cat off to her, is a traitor, beating too damn fast at just the mere glint in his eyes. It’s been doing that for two weeks now, and she  _hates_ it.

She stands there like a fool, shifting her weight from one foot to another, knuckles turning white as she grips the door and fights an internal battle because she wants him here (how can she not?) but she also wants to avoid him being the subject of the verbal onslaught she is sure her friend is eager to deliver.

He notices her tension, of course he does, he always manages to read her infuriatingly well, “Is everything okay?”

“Um, yeah,” she chances a glance over her shoulder at Elsa who happens to be staring intently at her and attempting to eavesdrop. She nibbles on her lower lip and turns back to him, “Yeah, all good.”

Killian’s expression shifts a little into something unreadable, every trace of excitement disappearing from his face entirely as he moves his eyes down to examine the box in his hands, jaw clenching for a split second. “If you have other company, I can take my leave,” he quietly offers with a barely-there shrug of his left shoulder and she swears she hears disappointment in his voice, doesn’t want to believe the dejection that’s laced into the vowels for her own sanity.

“No,” she rushes out, “no, no, nothing -,” she heaves out a sigh, “nothing like that. My friend, Elsa, you know the one I’ve told you about, she’s here so we were just catching up.”

She tries to calm her army march of a heartbeat when his grin - something more sheepish now - effortlessly barrels right back on to his face. She really tries.

He holds the box out to her, then, “Well, I’ll leave you to your chat, love.”

“You could stay! I don’t mind!” Elsa’s voice echoes through the apartment and Emma can only squeeze her eyes shut because if there’s anything worse than Elsa’s deputy-like interrogations, it’s her mom-like desire to embarrass Emma. And none of this can end well, she’s sure.

When she opens her eyes, it’s to Killian’s amused grin and a questioning gaze. He’s such an idiot, leaving the decision up to her as if to not crowd her. And if she wasn’t already so head over heels about him, she would be now. Emma steps back, pulling the door wide open for him to enter.

She stops him as he’s sauntering in with her hand on his bicep - ignoring the way her stomach flips at the flexing of muscles under her palm, the way he smells like stale rum but also like striking male cologne and leather, the way her lips begin to tingle with the need to kiss him. She keeps her eyes trained on his, whispers only half-jokingly, “If she gets a little too intimidating and threatens leaving you in Antarctica, distract her with Butterscotch and run.”

He chuckles, a deep thing, and winks at her, “Don’t worry, Swan, I’m certain this is a battle my charming self will win.”

She scoffs at him, removing her hand from where it’s still resting on his arm and moves to close the door. He’s too right for his own good, sometimes.

The evening, surprisingly, goes by without a hitch. After the initial string of fierce questioning and Killian's suave (if she says so herself) answering, Emma notices her friend's icy demeanour beginning to melt. Elsa returns to pleasant conversation and manages to bond with Killian over places in Europe she's visited throughout the years. She feels a bit left out, her gut clenching whenever the two burst out into roaring laughter over something she can't quite understand. But, as Butterscotch stretches her limbs out, moves backwards and wiggles her rear, getting ready to pounce on a crumpled ball of paper, Emma finds herself waving off her insecurities.

It's a strange feeling - she's been alone her whole life. Meeting Elsa was like finding a part of herself in another person, a lost piece of her soul. The spark that shoots across her skin as Killian meets her eyes and offers her a brilliant smile, for the countless-th time between his conversation, is enough to simmer down any twinge of discomfort.

He keeps his eyes trained on her for a few seconds until she finally breaks away from his gaze to sift her fingers through Butterscotch's fur. The emotion that curls up at the base of her throat is equal parts frightening and welcome; she's undoubtedly falling for Killian Jones and she thinks he feels  _something_  for her, but then again, she's been wrong before.

It's dark out when Elsa takes her leave, the doughnuts nearly all polished off (courtesy of her and Butterscotch, mainly), wishing both Killian and Butterscotch a goodbye before lingering at the doorway to hug Emma tightly.

"I like him," Elsa whispers with her arms still wrapped around Emma's shoulders, "I'm happy for you."

The blush that creeps on to her cheeks is uncalled for, and she chokes out a laugh, "I told you, it's nothing."

Her friend releases her and shoots her a skeptical grin that seems to edge on the beginning of a smirk, before turning on her heel and shouting a "Goodnight, lovebirds!" over a shoulder.

She groans, hoping the walls are thick enough that he hadn't hear that, and pads back into the apartment to find Killian in the kitchen, rinsing the mugs they'd drank from.

"You don't have to do that," she walks over to stand beside him.

The smile he shoots her is soft and  _happy_ and she really shouldn't be this hopeful, "It's the least I can do, love, considering I did interrupt your evening, and then leave you to converse with an animal."

"Butterscotch makes for good company," she chuckles.

"Aye, I'm certain she does. But, it was still bad form and I apologise," he fidgets his fingers and Emma knows he's trying his hardest not to pull them to scratch behind his ear.

She reaches over to shut off the running tap and leans her hip on the counter to face him fully. He mirrors her stance, a shine dancing in his eyes - she takes a second to wonder how unfair it is that he seems to look good in even the harsh lighting of the kitchen. "I'm the one that should be saying sorry, Elsa tends to get a bit, well, overprotective."

"She's a good friend," he says softly, searching her eyes, "and I gather she approves of me and my striking personality?"

She grins and runs her tongue across her bottom lip, because even though he's being smug, he sounds so hopeful and she can't help but want to toy with him for his need of approval. She hums, "Maybe."

He tilts his head and narrows his eyes at her playfully.

"There was no talk about shipping you to Antarctica," she pokes a finger at his ribs, opting to let him off easy, "so I think you're good."

"Great, because it would be a shame to leave," he slowly shuffles closer to her at that, and she finds her breath hitching ever so slightly at his proximity. He curls his tongue against his cheek, "especially because I know you'd miss me so much."

She darts her eyes in between his, not trusting her voice to come out levelled when her heart has decided to start beating a quick bruise against her chest. When she notices his gaze flit to her lips for barely a second, it's all the invitation she needs to surge forward and eliminate the hair breadth of a distance between them, crashing her lips on to his.

Because, she's been waiting too long and, really,  _fuck it_.

He responds almost immediately, his still-wet fingers carding through her hair as his lips move against hers slowly, experimentally. Her hands find the back of his neck, pulling him closer, revelling in the feel of his stubble scratching at her skin. It's sweet and not too long, but when she pulls back to rest her forehead against his, they're both out of breath; she wants to smirk at how much of an effect she seems to have on him but the minute he opens his eyes, blue gaze open and honest and searching, she realizes he has as large of an effect on her.

"Emma, I -" his ragged whisper is cut off with a yowl of pain and a "bloody hell!"

She furrows her eyebrows but follows his gaze as he looks down to find Butterscotch latched on to his left leg with her claws, attempting to draw his attention. The laughter bubbles out of her lips and causes his expression to soften as he bends down to cradle the cat in his arms.

"Bloody awful timing you have," he nuzzles his nose into Butterscotch's fur and laughs, the joyful sound warming her skin.

She finds herself a bit overwhelmed at the picture they make, at how easily the pair of them manage to pull at her heartstrings. She’d never thought she’d be so taken with Killian Jones, and all because of the stupid glee that takes over him whenever he’s around the feline in his arms. She thinks she might possess a similar idiotic happiness whenever she’s around him.

She smiles, bringing her fingers to stroke under the cat's chin. "I don't know, she can be a pain sometimes," she moves closer to him, her hand leaving the cat's fur to card through his dark hair and she watches as his eyes flutter shut at the contact, "but I'd say she found you at just the right time."

He opens his eyes, a delicately blissful emotion dancing behind his pupils, and leans forward to capture her lips once again.

And she thinks she should be scared of the feeling of belonging that's swirling in her stomach because there's every chance it can be ripped away from her, but as he grins into the kiss and she finds herself doing the same, she honestly can't say she cares about that one bit. 


End file.
